Ford Galaxy

It broke the dog’s leg
when you were reversing for me          on the slope at home.

Racing green
it sits for scrap now

on the tow truck.

Majestic as a king
on his lectica
the ratchets click
the blue straps tighten

before the final journey

out the gates

through which it once

first drove

purchased from our savings

when we were told
we were having twins.

Ground-in chocolate, mud, crumbs
infant seats all straps and buckles

the roof rack bars were your horizontal

handles when you’d stand
and, like the Hulk, begin to shake

us when you’d come to say goodbye.

And the strapped-in children would
shout as if they were about to be tipped

out, and when you stopped, their laughter
turned to Do it again! Go on, do it again!

I once knew a woman who drove a convertible:

metallic navy, white leather interior, gloss veneer
fabric, reclining roof.

A thing of  vehicular beauty.

When she sold it she never wrote a poem.